


you're my only reason

by aizensosuke



Category: Bleach
Genre: Battle, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, International Fanworks Day, International Fanworks Day 2019, Introspection, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 11:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aizensosuke/pseuds/aizensosuke
Summary: jugram learns to wield a reishi weapon to protect the center of his universe.





	you're my only reason

The battle should be a simple one as far as their forces are concerned, provided Jugram Haschwalth does as he is told. He does his best. While he is useless in battle— able to fight with a sword, perhaps, but that is nothing against a zanpakuto— he serves his place well as the Grandmaster of the Sternritter. It was his Majesty’s only request of him, other than for Jugram to remain at his side during every conflict so he could properly protect him from harm, ensuring the bond between them was never ensnared or broken by the brunt force of the path they walked to ensure a better world.

Jugram should listen better. It is the one thing his Majesty truly asks of him.

“Stay behind me.” His Majesty’s voice is careful, low and soft, meant for his ears only and Jugram presses his back to his Majesty’s, feels the weight of it, the strength of it. His Majesty, the man who carries the weight of the future world on his shoulders, whose knees do not buckle beneath the weight of that. “Do not move from my side.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The words slip like honey from his lips. Twenty-two years old, Jugram is nothing short of loyal, nothing short of determined to do anything he can for this man.

His Majesty’s free hand gropes for his and Jugram squeezes it, their fingers twining, and he wills the Balance to wrap around the two of them. Even with his limited prowess in battle, even with his lack of fighting ability, Jugram knows that the Balance is well-suited for battle and far more useful than his Majesty’s all-seeing eyes.

He needs to make quick decisions, snap decisions, and the Balance can protect him. Jugram can protect him by extension. It is all he can offer, and he offers it freely.

When his Majesty speaks, Jugram can hear the smile on his lips, the joy in his words. “They will go down like euthanized dogs. Do not stray from me. Remain near at all times.”

“Yes.” Jugram nods once, and when his Majesty flies into battle, Jugram follows him.

There is bloodshed. There is death. The battlefield is a place suited for their forces and the thrill of the battle itself is not lost on Jugram even though he cannot fight. Every attempt to extend his power into something tangible and useful to his Majesty has been for naught, though he pushes himself every day to improve. All he wants to do is please the man who took him away from his past and gave him a future that he could be proud of, a lofty goal they could tear from the heavens if they did it together.

His Majesty, Yhwach, the king of the Quincies, the God of the new world. Jugram would see to it even if he only reached this goal with his dying breath. It was his lifeblood.

This close, he can see the power of his Majesty in battle. His sword is not a sword but an arrow large enough for him to glasp, a bolt shot from a bow so large it spans across the sky like a gateway to the heavens. Jugram is never less than breathless when he watches it occur, always moved by the sight, by the fortitude of his Majesty’s power and grace given physical form. When he had touched that blade, just once, the power had settled into his bones and left him quivering from head to toe, moved from the immensity of it.

In everything, his Majesty his eternal and overwhelming. He demands all of the senses.

These shinigami are not powerful enough to stop him. Even as they throw themselves into the battle, they are not enough to contend with his Majesty. Jugram always keeps a close eye on him, deflects what he can with the Balance and tries to remain near without hindering him. He dances around him, pale-haired and white-robed, a contrast to his Majesty’s dark hair, his dark eyes, the blackness of the cloak wrapped around his shoulders. An angel robed in shadows, a true Quincy warrior.

Jugram never fails to feel his heart beat faster when he sees his Majesty in battle.

There are always risks. Shinigami are crafty. Weaker and inferior warriors, they have to plan carefully and always look for openings because in a straight battle, they could never hope to win. The zanpakuto is there and then it is not, and then it is mere centimeters away from cleaving Haschwalth’s face in two. His eyes barely have time to widen.

The blow never comes. He braces for it, hears metal thud against flesh.

“Get behind me.” The order is clear long before Jugram blinks, before he processes the sight of his Majesty’s hand wrapped around the shinigami’s blade.

His eyes drift down, watching something dark pool against his Majesty’s skin, drip crimson onto the earth beneath them. Blood. The shinigami had drawn blood with his blow.

“Haschwalth.” His Majesty’s head tilts minutely. “Get behind me. I’ll handle this.”

His hands curl into fists.  _ You shouldn’t have to, _ he wants to say.  _ I should be able to protect you from them, _ he wants to say.  _ How can I be the other half of a living God if I am useless to him, unable to serve him in any way that truly matters? _

The air crackles like electricity around him. When he inhales, he can taste it in his lungs.

“Quincy bastards,” the shinigami snarls, and Jugram’s head jerks upward, his jaw tightening because  _ how dare anyone speak to his Majesty like that? _ “You’d have been better off staying at home if you came to the battlefield with no intention to fight!”

The shinigami tries to wrench his zanpakuto away and his Majesty bares down on his grip, wraps his fingers around the blade and refuses to release it. More blood drips from his hand as the blade saws into his palm, cuts back against his fingers. Jugram remembers that hand held out to him when he was a child. He remembers that hand on his face just this morning, a gentle reassurance that even if he could not fight, he would always be needed on the battlefield. He would always be needed at his Majesty’s side.

The sound that leaves his throat is helpless, infuriated, righteous with rage.

The air crackles and  _ snaps _ and Jugram thrusts his hand into the thick of the reishi, not sure what he is doing, what he is reaching for until the hilt of the sword becomes solid in his grip. The blade burns blue and he grips it ever tighter, the burn of it against his hand a reassurance.  _ This is what I was made for. I was made to protect and shield his Majesty. _

And anyone who dared to harm the man who led him would have to die.

Bazz-B had taught him how to fight with a sword to make up for his abilities but he will not be a hindrance any longer. Jugram throws himself into the battle without hesitation, his blade aimed for the shinigami’s throat, the bastard’s leering face until he hears a shriek turn into wet gurgles, helpless sounds that are extinguished when he wrenches the blade just so. Blood bubbles up around the reishi but does not stain it and he bears the shinigami down to the ground, watching the bloodied zanpakuto crumble into dust.

_ Anything that harms his Majesty will be destroyed beneath my boots. _

“Haschwalth?” The voice behind him is uncertain, curious, and he turns to see his Majesty studying him with dark eyes, that crimson just a shade or two away from black.

Jugram swallows. Yanks his sword out of the dirt and turns, walking forward to take his Majesty’s wounded hand in his own. “The bastard injured you. I couldn’t forgive him.”

“When did you learn to do that?” His Majesty seems uninterested in his own wounds.

He thrusts the sword into the dirt next to him, rips a section of his cloak off and wraps it around his Majesty’s hand, careful of his fingers, of his palm. He brings his Majesty’s hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the bloodied fabric. “You need to be more careful. Even a dull blade has the power to cut when you touch it in such a way. Do not be reckless for me.”

“You are my other half,” his Majesty says, as if that is the sum total of it all, as if it is an inarguable fact and Jugram is helpless to do anything about it. “I would do anything if it meant keeping you safe. This wound is inconsequential. It will be healed by nightfall.”

“Just the same. I do not like the thought of it.” Jugram picks the sword up from the dirt, the broad blade of it gleaming in the sunlight, the reishi solid and sure. “I cannot answer your question. I did not learn. I merely reacted when I saw you were hurt.”

His Majesty touches his cheek with his wounded fingers and Jugram’s breath catches in his throat. “You are a marvel, always. We will discuss this after the battle.”

There is a difference in training to kill and killing in battle. Jugram knows this on an intellectual level, and he does not care. The shinigami who fall beneath his blade would have stabbed his Majesty in the back as dishonestly as they could if it meant defeating him. They would have hurt the man who gave Jugram a lease on a new life, a path to walk after everything had been taken from him. No one could ever understand how much his Majesty had done for him, how much he did for him merely by existing as he did.

Jugram kills for him and does not question it. He does not need to. If this is what his Majesty says is right, then it is right. It is for him and the dreams that Jugram will tear from the grasps of the stars above if it means presenting it to him with burned and bleeding fingers. Sore shoulders from bearing the weight of his sword mean nothing.

When the battle is over and there are only dead on the ground, Jugram finds his Majesty standing in the thick of it over the dead body of the unfortunate captain who led this brigade. There is a smile on his face. The blood on his makeshift bandage is rust.

The reishi of their blades dissipates and he holds out his wounded hand, and Jugram takes it carefully in both of his own, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Your Majesty.”

“You’re going to have to practice at that more often,” his Majesty tells him. “If I have to capture a shinigami to attack me daily to spur you on, I’m willing to take the risk.”

Jugram hopes his face can convey how disgusted he is with the idea, moving ever closer until he stand in his Majesty’s shadow. “No. I will find a way to make sure that I practice, but not at the cost of your physical safety. You should not have to bleed for me.”

“Is that what you think?” His Majesty twists his hand so that he grips Jugram’s, hauling him closer, up against his chest, towering over him, impressive height and power that could bring Jugram to his knees if he wanted to. He doesn’t have to ask. Jugram’s knees are already buckling beneath him. “I would bleed for you if it meant you were safe and alive. You are my other half, Haschwalth. You are a part of me. I intend not to lose you.”

_ What does that mean? _ Jugram wants to ask him.  _ How could I ever be anything to you? _

He swallows so hard his throat feels dry and his voice comes out in a rasp. “Very well.”

“Every day, you will train with that sword.” His Majesty’s voice softens, his face losing its lines of tension, and Jugram’s lips quirk up at the corners. Training for his Majesty, at his Majesty’s orders. “I know you can use a sword. So you will learn to use it efficiently.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” He straightens his spine, lifts his chin. “I will make you proud.”

“You already do.” His Majesty shakes his head, pulls his hand free and unwinds the makeshift bandage. The wounds are already closed, but they look deep, painful.

Jugram is reaching for him before he can stop himself, holding his hand as carefully as he can, brushing his fingers over those marks as his stomach coils tight. Those shinigami bastards will never be able to earn respite for this disrespect. Jugram will hunt down every single one of them to make up for the causation of this wound.

“It is not as bad as it looks,” his Majesty tells him. “I hardly felt it. I was more concerned about your well-being than sustaining damage. It takes far more to affect me.”

“The principle of it, though.” And in full view of the Quincy around them, Jugram brings his Majesty’s hand to his lips once more, meets those dark eyes and kisses his skin.

It is scandalous, for certain. It is blasphemous, for Jugram is not sure he ever believed in a true God before now but he believes in the man before him, in his strength and the way he wields it. He believes in his Majesty Yhwach and only the fact that they need to move on keeps him from falling to his knees in open worship of his kindness, of his gentle nature because even in the thick of battle, he stopped to make sure that Jugram would survive.

That is a kindness most of the Sternritter have failed to learn in this army.

“Are you well?” His Majesty steps closer to him, cups his chin with the hand Jugram is not clinging to like a lifeline, like destiny. “I know that battle can be stressful and you are not used to fighting like that, but I would have thought you were better suited for it.”

“I was happy to defeat the enemy if it was for you. That is not… I am fine.”  _ That is not why I stand here with my eyes fixed on you like you are brighter than the sun above. But you will blind me with that radiance, your Majesty, and never stop to wonder how this is so. _

His Majesty’s sigh is a gentle one. “I’m glad, then, that you made it through just fine.”

“Not a scratch on me.” He would have let them draw blood to protect his Majesty.  He would have offered up his body like that of a sacrificial lamb only to revert that pain and suffering onto the enemy, a cruel fate than death. “Did you sustain more injury?”

“No. I am fine.” His Majesty smiles, and Jugram feels something low in his stomach kick.

He wonders, distantly, what love is. What divorces it from the open worship with which he looks at his Majesty, with which he watches breathless as he dispatches their enemies, as he rouses the Sternritter for another day of battle, as he rules over the kingdom he has taken and created with his own hands. He supposes he could ask. Certainly, Bazz-B could answer the question, though he predicts the taste of copper on his tongue and the burn of a bruise on his jaw when Bazz-B discovers why he would ask such a question.

It is hard for Jugram to know the true definition. He may have grown up in love. He may have felt it from that first moment when that reiatsu wrapped around him like a loving embrace. His Majesty had never touched him, not like his uncle— But there is no time to think of such a thing. He grew up protected and safe and is the bolder of the two of them, reaching out to touch his Majesty when manhood cloaked him like a mantle, when his shoulders grew broad and his gait grew long and those around him began to fear and respect him as their leader, as their Grandmaster.

His Majesty had left it up to him to make the choice for himself. His Majesty had been himself and let Jugram draw his own conclusions and does even now, offering him only gentle reassurance and guidance, drawing him nowhere. Forcing him into nothing.

In front of their elite Sternritter, Jugram closes the minute distance between them, grips his Majesty by the jaw, and brings their lips together. It is unhurried but unpracticed and only after a long and breathless moment during which Jugram is not sure whether has actually  _ done _ anything does his Majesty move, tilting his head so their mouths meet seamlessly, hand cupping the back of his neck to allow him to remain close.

It is the first time his Majesty has ever encouraged him in such a way. Jugram’s heart beats frantic staccato against his ribs and he feels something warm uncurl there, stretching its wings like the form of the Vollstandig he has yet to claim.

_ Maybe now I can do so, with this before me to set my path and guide the way. _

“Is that why you were concerned for me?” His Majesty asks him, and Jugram huffs soft laughter against his lips, closes his eyes.  _ Shameful, so shameful. _ “Rest assured that I will not leave your side, Haschwalth. We are one. Nothing will come between us. Not even death. Not even the end of this world and the birth of the next.”

“I trust you.” Jugram kisses him again, feels the burn of his shirt beard against his lips and jaw and chases the prickle of it while his Majesty smiles against his lips and lets him draw as close as he wants, his hand never wavering from its place at Jugram’s neck.

With or without the wings of his Vollstandig, Jugram is certain that he could fly.

**Author's Note:**

> this is what i've written to celebrate international fanworks day and boy do i feel some kinda way for admitting that i'm super into this ship with how it is.
> 
> a couple notes: i view the whole "haschwalth, my firstborn" thing as more religious symbolism. i don't think any of us agree the quincy are all related to each other, and we know these two aren't. it's just nonsense. second, i do interpret the way haschwalth's uncle treated him as strongly suggesting he was molesting him, as was referenced. third, i find it just super interesting and a bit intense that he was so devoted to yhwach and in my head that was the choice he made for himself, not one that was made for him, when he was finally ready to properly make it.
> 
> anyway, this ship. boyo.


End file.
